Silence Guides Our Minds
by EmitTime
Summary: After a grueling world conference session, England meets America for a rendezvous in his hotel room. Alfred is quiet for once. Arthur listens as best he can, anyway. Established!USUK, modern era.


**Warnings: **Contains political elements. Rated 'T' for slight language and mildly intimate scenes.

**AN: **An exercise in present tense. This sat on my computer for over a month before I finally finished it. It was supposed to be shorter and more light-hearted, but then it evolved into something a bit deeper.

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**Silence Guides our Minds**

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><p>Arthur takes special care to be discreet as he emerges from his hotel room, gently easing the door shut and turning the handle just so to minimize the sound of the lock clicking into place. Years of practice sneaking in and out of places have aided him in fine movements of control such as this. Granted, what he's about to do isn't wrong or alarming, but it is important, and Arthur favours safeguarding his important affairs. It's imperative in his line of work, after all.<p>

The hallway is silent, not a guest or staff member in sight. England knows fully well that this floor will have been reserved for his kind - nation personifications. He's fairly certain that France is in a room close to his own - _always works out that way _– and he saw the Nordics disappear behind side-by-side doors on the other side of the hall earlier.

In his arms is a leather briefcase, full of documents relative to the world meeting topics, diagrams for his own presentations and notes from the subjects covered earlier that afternoon. Today has been the first round of a three-day conference. It is to be another bloody weekend spent on politics and economics with the most diverse, and oftentimes difficult, bunch of individuals he knows.

Oh, and he has known them a _long _while - long enough to see the world with them, quite literally.

Arthur does not care so much for the world tonight, however. These conferences are stressful affairs during even the best of times, which it certainly has not been as of late. The line between East and West is being pushed and strained again. Russia is brooding, much like a child who has been sent to bed without supper as punishment for stealing cookies. The continent as a whole is tense. England is in the thick of it all as usual, caught amidst the affairs of Europe, his relations with Asia and the Middle East, and his affiliation with America. His own agenda remains the same - a careful mixture of isolation and participation, both tactics proving necessary for the protection and prosperity of his people.

Despite his weariness, Arthur would not relinquish his place. He knows fully well how lucky he is to have survived all these years without falling into ruin, as is the fate of most Empires. He does not delude himself into thinking that it would have been impossible for him to end up eroded like Rome, faded-out like Prussia, or even piss-poor like Greece. He is grateful for the ability to hold his head high, and if he is honest with himself, it is oftentimes only his duty as a key nation in this world which convinces him to leave his house each day.

And now, after a long spiel of tense hours which have been anything but productive, he wants only to seek solace for the night - to find some peace and comfort before being required to present himself tomorrow and do it all over again. He has already sent a brief report to his boss regarding the day's developments, leaving out the more personal aspects of just what he and his fellow nations said and did during their meeting.

In addition to his 'work' briefcase, he also carries a small bag of toiletries; comb, toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, deodorant, shaving cream and razor. He has nearly everything he needs to survive; indeed, he's even got a clean teacup - outfitted with saucer, of course, he's not uncivilized - and a couple of teabags stashed in that briefcase.

All these things are just necessary precautions in case he finds himself pressed for time in the morning. After all, he plans to be out of his room all night, and to awake in a bed other than the one which has been designated to him.

Darkness has fallen, sunset being a few hours past. On either side of the long hallway are classy, reinforced floor-length windows, which are now gleaming like black obsidian. Beyond their darkened panes is a view of the skyline - towers, signs and skyscrapers all lit up as if in vigilance, beacons gleaming their greetings to the weary travelers of this modern world.

Arthur catches the faint outline of his reflection in the glass as he turns his head to glance both ways down the hallway. After ascertaining that he is not being watched by any of the nations residing in the neighboring rooms, he crosses the very short distance across the well-trod maroon carpet to a door just a few room numbers down from his own.

Shifting his belongings to the crook of one arm, he reaches in his breast pocket for the key card Alfred had slipped him earlier. The taller blonde had slid the thin plastic between the fine fabric of Arthur's suit coat pocket under the guise of a friendly hug. Remembering the action brought a wry half-smile to Arthur's lips. Alfred could be subtle when he wanted to be. The problem was that he enjoyed being loud.

It had never been easy to maintain their Special Relationship. If their clashing personalities didn't deepen the old rift between them, then the miles of Atlantic and the hustle and bustle of their duties was enough to keep them separated for months at a time. Arthur supposes that it's like any long-distance relationship, really - if you discounted the fact that they were nations with millions of pages of complicated, entwining history.

Oh, but absence serves to make the heart grow fonder, or some such folly, and the fact that they know each other so well is one of the reasons they are able to make it work.

(Arthur doesn't always define to himself what _it _is, because he is not the type of nation to declare himself in love, even within the ridges and valleys of his own imaginative mind.)

He has agreed to accept these invitations for trysts when convenient, even if it means sneaking out of his room after dark like a bloody teenager just to spend some time alone with the self-proclaimed hero. He cannot deny that he _does_ enjoy it. He has always been one for thrills, and no amount of etiquette drilled into him can fully erase the marks of the wild card he used be.

The key card slides easily into the narrow slot, and a sensor above the door handle briefly flickers green as the lock retracts. Through a careful maneuver of his fingers, Arthur manages to slide the card out and push the door open with his free hand, easing his way into the room.

Only the two lamps by the full-size beds are lit, leaving the small entryway where he stands and half the room shrouded in semidarkness. Nevertheless, he doesn't have to seek Alfred out at all, for the younger nation is sitting in front of the window directly in his line of sight.

He looks about as tired as Arthur is, which is a surprise. It is no secret that America possesses strength and stamina in stupendous spades. Something about his demeanor indicates he is clearly zapped, however, even as he grins at Arthur and sits up a bit from where he was slouched in the small armchair, idling twirling a ballpoint pen between his fingers.

"Hey, dude." Even his voice is slightly more subdued than usual. It would perhaps be imperceptible to someone who wasn't used to hearing America's unique and typically obnoxious tones, but it's noticeable enough to England.

"Hullo, yourself." Raising a brow, Arthur takes in the neat stack of documents upon the side table next to the chair. "You were actually doing your paperwork?"

Alfred's grin falters a bit at that, and a tiny stab of guilt twinges at Arthur's conscience. Although his question had been innocent enough, he hadn't masked the sardonic undertone as well as he should have.

"Well, yeah. I do pay attention sometimes, you know." Alfred mutters petulantly as he carelessly drops the pen onto the table. He stands up to close the curtains over the window, blocking the two of them from the view of anyone who may be tempted to glance up at what the occupants of the third floor are up to.

Arthur has just half a second to notice the weariness in his eyes, a knowledge which settles like lead, grating in his mind and causing him to purse his lips in return.

Throughout the day, England had felt a sense of foreboding overshadowing his usual irritations and anxieties. He wonders now if it was, at least in part, because something is _wrong_ with _Alfred_.

It wouldn't be amiss, with the way things have been going in their world as of late. Everyone has been on edge, even if they haven't been showing it. Arthur had been fooled during the day along with the others by Alfred's Hollywood smiles, his laughter and habit of talking with his mouth full and all the other distracting behavior he put on.

He realizes now that he should have picked up on a sign sooner. But they have the night together, which means he has time to make up for his lack of observation.

"Yes, I do know." He concedes as he sets his things down upon the one bed which is still neatly made.

Odds are quite probably that he and Alfred will end up sharing a bed, so Arthur doesn't bother to turn down the duvet. Instead, he stills as a warm hand settles upon his back, between his shoulder blades. The sensation is familiar by now, comforting, and Arthur unhurriedly straightens up to face his lover, reluctant to dislodge that touch now that he has the privacy in which to enjoy it.

America's hair is even more mussed compared to when England saw him leave the conference room this afternoon, and his umber brown tie is resting loosely around his shoulders, the collar of his khaki shirt rumpled. Only the very first button has been undone.

What's more, Alfred is still wearing his brown bomber jacket, and the sight causes Arthur to give a small, sincere smile. Only America can get away with forgoing a proper suit coat for that old jacket and still look...well, rather dashing.

"It's been a long day." Alfred looks down so that Arthur cannot see his expression, toying with the Brit's forest green tie.

"It has been." Arthur readily agrees, and he wants to say more.

He wants to ask if Alfred is alright, although he knows the answer already. He wants to tell him things will get better, yet he isn't sure he believes that to begin with. He wants to see if Alfred left something out of his presentation today, something important that perhaps he should know about. He wants to say, _I missed you I love you we'll get through this_, but the words stick in his throat like granules of sugar - too much, too sweet for him.

Alfred will only balk in moods like these if Arthur pushes too hard, anyway. Instead of a sensible answer, he'd receive a defensive spiel. America detests vulnerability in himself and will attempt to cover it up through any means, including anger. The younger nation has gone off at him before about how England has _'no right to tell him how to run his life'_, or some such rubbish. He is tedious sort of individual to be sure, but Arthur must admit that he himself is not easy to get along with, either.

He catches Alfred's hand in his own instead, feeling calloused fingertips against his own skin. "It's good to be here with you." He murmurs at last, giving the hand in his a faint squeeze, a gesture which he hopes will convey support.

America's smile is his reward, clearly appreciative even as half-hearted as it is. "You too, dude." He lowers his eyes once more, giving a helpless shrug. "I've just been feeling..."

"Ah. Feeling."

And Arthur understands well enough from the single-sentence, half-arsed explanation. He'd woken up to enough rainy days in London with the same melancholy mood, after all. When you lived as long as they did, it was inevitable.

"You've a right to that, you know." He points out, somewhat hypocritically. "You've a right to feel."

Alfred makes a sound between a grunt and a hum in response, before slipping his hand out of Arthur's and returning his attention to the older nation's tie, calloused fingers pulling at the knot.

Despite himself, England cannot help giving a soft snort. "You're still pants at tying a tie, but at least you can undo one." He murmurs wryly as he brings his own hands up to the lapels of America's jacket, taking a moment simply to feel the familiar, well-worn fabric between his fingers before beginning to slide it off Alfred's shoulders.

"It isn't like you to leave formal wear on any longer than necessary." He adds, recognizing his companion's need for a distraction. Once Alfred's arms have been freed of the jacket, Arthur carefully folds it and sets it on the bed.

He will never admit such a thing to America, but he's grown just as used to that jacket as Alfred himself has.

In magic, there is such a thing as talismans, wearable tokens of power, of personality and prestige. England knows the jacket has no such interwoven wizardry, and yet when it is around America's shoulders, he can almost believe it is more than just a favourite jacket.

(It has to be an idle curiosity like that, because England's hidden fascination with America's jacket has absolutely _nothing _to do with the fact that it's warm and soft and smells like the nation himself, a saccharine, masculine scent imprinted into the leather, like ashen woodsmoke and tangy sea salt with the barest hint of crisp apples and sweet peaches.)

Alfred tugs on his loosened tie to bring him back up again, and Arthur barely has time to scowl at the impertinent move before an arm snakes about his waist, and then the tie is slipped over his head as the younger nation leans closer.

"It's a good thing you're here now to get me out of this stuffy crap, huh?"

"Bloody wanker." The retort is not unkind, especially when the words are practically riding on Arthur's breath, each syllable smooth and softened in such a way that the insult almost sounds like a sensual endearment.

England has to resist the urge to smirk when he feels America shudder just slightly against him. Then he is released only to find hands now intent on removing his own suit jacket. He slaps them away lightly when they tug at the front of his dress shirt, knowing fully well that Alfred will ruin the shirt by ripping the delicately-sewn buttons off if he allows it.

He deftly pops the buttons from their holes himself instead, and it's his turn to shiver now as cool air hits his exposed chest. Alfred seems to have taken the hint and regained some patience, for he unhurriedly slips the shirt off Arthur's shoulders and down his arms, taking time to stroke pale, silvery-scarred skin along the way.

Arthur can't quite stop the soft sigh which escapes him at the unexpectedly drawn-out action. It's been so long since they've done this, anything like this – this slow undressing of one another.

Although it's certainly an intimate act, there isn't anything implicitly sexual about it. It's relaxing, comforting, liberating. It feels almost as though they are shedding armour, trading the surface layers of velvet, silk and leather for vulnerable, honest exposure.

It goes without saying that the level of trust they place in one another is extremely deep, and it has taken them centuries to get to this moment in time.

Arthur does not forget that for an instant, although the past is pushed as far back in his mind as possible tonight. He allows Alfred to cup his cheek and guide him into a kiss, thinking that he'll much be obliged if this is the sort of stress relief Alfred prefers to talking.

He slips his hands between their bodies to rid the younger nation of his own shirt, not breaking the contact between their lips even when their bare chests brush together at last. Alfred gasps and Arthur doesn't try to hold back his smirk this time, a wry and breathless twist of his lips as they pull apart just slightly for air. He strokes up and down Alfred's back, careful to use only soothing, feather-light caresses of his fingertips. He suspects this won't be a night for nail-raking. _Not yet_, anyhow.

He can feel Alfred's left hand on his hip now, rubbing in small, concentrated circles which gradually widen as they begin to kiss again. Alfred kisses like he has something to prove but also like he is very much searching for an anchor, and it's for this reason that Arthur can forgive him when he hears the soft wisp through the air which signals that his dress shirt has just been dropped raffishly onto the carpet.

Arthur even feels generous enough to offer a soft sigh of approval against Alfred's lips, but still has enough pride – and enough presence of mind - to quell the moan which had been building in the back of his throat under this unexpected onslaught of attention. Not to be outdone, he tugs the younger nation forward and holds him close, mapping him out with his hands, conveying without words his _acceptance affection_ _accordance_.

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this physical connection until this very moment. He is truly so tired, but his nerves are igniting on fire now. The sensations fill him with a thrumming, pulsing energy that is quite familiar, even if it has been awhile since he's experienced it.

One look in Alfred's eyes, one press of his palms to muscular shoulders which ease their tension against his touch, and he knows America is feeling this, too.

Oh, England is no stranger to _this_ type of comfort, but rather an old friend.

Regardless of his past experiences and escapades, he has never considered himself to be a very _ideal_ lover – nor have many of his previous partners, he is well aware. There is just something about Alfred himself, something beautifully cataclysmic which has always been able to overturn Arthur's considerations of what he is and is not. America is the exception to most of England's rules; he is the sole trespasser trampling through many of his walls.

It's bloody frustrating, but he would not give it up even if he could. Not now.

But Arthur concedes that he _can_ part with other things, such as his trousers.

He stills only momentarily as Alfred's hands dart lower to unbutton his black slacks and pull the fly down, pushing the fabric down his hips so he can shimmy out of them. He remembers belatedly to toe off his dress shoes first – thank goodness he decided not to wear his old military garb with the buckles and cumbersome boots – and soon he is standing only in his socks and boxers, the latter of which, contrary to popular belief, do not _always_ feature the Union Jack.

(That's only one pair, for the record, and Arthur would never admit that they _are_ his favourite.)

Alfred grips his biceps with gentle pressure then, pulling him closer, and Arthur stares at him – he has to tilt his gaze up to do that these days, but it's not something he can _truly _complain about – unafraid. There is warmth in America's expression and it almost smooths over the weariness and anxiety, but England can feel the heat from the younger nation's palms against his skin, can discern a pulse that is quickened for many reasons besides warm kisses and caressing touches.

"Does it ever get easier?" Alfred's gaze doesn't falter, but his voice is a wavering warble, hoarse and soft and _lost_.

"Hm?" He hums inquisitively in response, smoothing his palms across muscular shoulders, feeling them relax against the gentle pressure of his hands.

"Does this business of living get any easier?" Alfred reiterates, pulling back to look him in the eye with uncharacteristic contemplation, and Arthur wonders when he missed this happening, America turning into some sort of contemplative philosopher. For as much as he berates the younger nation for being too immature and excitable, all he can think to himself now is that he would prefer that to America being in despair.

Those eyes smolder into his very core, here in this dimly lit room, gleaming in the path of the light and seeming deeper than the seven seas England had once sailed.

There was a time back then, when Arthur loved a little boy so fiercely that he would have lied and said _yes,_ just to keep the hope afloat in those bright, shimmering eyes.

But that boy is no more, and Arthur loves the man who took his place in a different way, although this new love is no less sincere, nor less powerful.

(It doesn't hurt any less, either, but England has learned fully well by now that the magic known as love comes only with a fair amount of sacrifice.)

He loves him enough to be honest, because he believes in Alfred's strength.

He brings one of his hands up to card through honey-blonde locks, feeling the soft strands slide against his fingers like silken barley as he leans up, close enough to smell the barest hint of aftershave along Alfred's jaw.

"I used to think it never would." He murmurs lowly, guiding Alfred closer until there is less than a breath's space between them, noses bumping as they tilt their heads. America's eyes are lowered to half-mast now, his large and strong hands moving down to England's slim waist. Arthur does nothing to dissuade him, allowing the familiar touch as he would with no other.

"And now?" Alfred prompts, his words ending with the brush of a kiss against the corner of Arthur's mouth.

"Now, I know it doesn't." The words are softly delivered, yet sharp in their own way. They carry a fair share of Arthur's own weariness, and the bitterness which has steeped in his soul like tea, centuries of sour brewing and acerbic brooding. "Life does not get _easier_ for us, for anyone."

Momentarily stilling, he feels Alfred's hands upon him, one resting upon his hip, the other curled over his shoulder.

Arthur brings his own arms up to drape them over the man's neck. His eyes soften as he regards the man before him, feeling some of those poisonous things polluting his own heart dilute as he stands in the quiet presence and warm embrace of his lover.

"Although, it _eases_, from time to time." He follows the amendment with a kiss, leaning up to catch Alfred's lips with his own.

Alfred's only answer is a throaty groan which could have meant anything. Arthur swallows it down, and feels the bitterness wash away. A fire ignites the spark in his heart and sends warm heat jolting through his veins.

"Arthur..."

England thinks he forgets to breath for just a moment or two while America debates over what to say. It doesn't affect either of them.

"Can I just – hold you?" Alfred asks, his warm breath ghosting against the shell of Arthur's ear, so close that Arthur can feel the phantom sensation of his lips forming those words.

Arthur inhales and exhales. His heart pulses and beats and aches.

"Yes."

Behind that affirmation, there are still more words swirling within his thoughts. They dart from the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue – he is best with words, that is his main domain.

But England is flexible, and more than capable of conveying his purposes through alternate means.

Alfred had taken his boots off long before Arthur arrived, and the older nation once again bats his hands away to make short work of his tan slacks.

They fall upon the stark white sheets in a gentle tangle of limbs, knowing touches and soft breaths and _closeness. _Arthur brushes his nose against the juncture of Alfred's neck. Alfred hooks a leg over his and they lay side-by-side in one another's arms.

There are no more words, nor impatient motions. There is only the two of them tucked into each other, both seeking solace, both offering comfort through their own maelstrom of soul-deep weariness, and it's _enough_.

It's enough to ease their lives, if only for some precious hours.

In the morning, the stress and worries will return along with the mantle of their duties, and they will have to rise and walk out to do it all over again. Perhaps they will dress each other first, tugging fabric across skin, slipping buttons through holes and twisting fingers around ties.

Perhaps they will make this a new habit during long conferences, forming a ritual of this mutual undressing, this togetherness in quietness.

For now, however, there is tonight, and the quiet stillness as they wrap themselves in a cocoon of warmth and skin and silence, where no chill of foreboding or loneliness can dampen their weary hearts. This mellow closeness is all-encompassing.

Words cannot be enough now even if Shakespeare himself were to hand him a manuscript, so Arthur rests two fingers against Alfred's lips and takes a simple thrill of delight in tracing the familiar smile he finds there.

He knows that the expression will not be so honest upon the morrow, and that is all the more reason to cherish the hushed lips while he is able.

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_End_

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Title taken from "Sweater Weather" by The Neighborhood.


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